


Cold night, warm heart

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Cold Weather, Erebor, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Love Confessions, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6261628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A human gets her first taste of winter in Erebor and Thorin comes to the rescue on a freezing night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold night, warm heart

Yet another draft blew through the Great Hall of Erebor as you sat on the edge of a small cot, pulling on a second pair of socks. The newly reclaimed dwarven stronghold was chilly at any time of day, thanks to broken gates, damaged furnaces, and long-disused fireplaces choked with decades of ashes and soot, but when night fell and the cruel winter held the mountain firmly in its icy grip, everyone from the King to the handful of Dain Ironfoot’s remaining pigs shivered.

You looked with concern over the crowd of lodgers that temporarily filled the Hall. Far on the opposite, relatively warmer end of the vast chamber were rows of cots where the wounded lay, casualties from the armies of men, dwarves, and elves alike who had been given sanctuary inside the mountain after the battle, at Thorin’s insistence. Healers of all races milled quietly about, tending to their patients with fresh bandages, herbal remedies, and warm blankets. The near end of the Hall, close to where you had managed to find refuge – such as it was – had been overtaken by the cots and bedrolls of the weary soldiers of Dain’s army.

You reflected with a sigh that this sobering scene had been far from your mind in the comfort of your home in Ered Luin when you’d eagerly agreed to join the company of Thorin Oakenshield to work alongside your mentor, Oin. “She’s a fine healer, quite skilled for a human,” the elderly dwarf had vouched to Thorin as you’d smothered a grin at this qualification, “and I can use the extra hands and keen ears.”

That conversation and the thirst for adventure that had accompanied it now seemed a lifetime ago, and addressing yourself once more to the task at hand, you prepared to bed down among the ragtag assembly, fluffing the meager pillow and folding the woolen blanket to create another layer of warmth.

“What are you doing?”

The familiar baritone startled you, and you steeled yourself as you turned to find Thorin standing at the foot of the cot, observing you with a furrowed brow. Though in the course of the quest the two of you had overcome your initial uncertainty of each other, and even settled into a cautious camaraderie, his regal bearing and stern beauty still had a way of making him intimidating, despite your handbreadth’s advantage in height.

“I’m going to sleep,” you said lightly, gesturing toward the makeshift bed.

“What, here?” The lines on his forehead deepened. “Why are you not sleeping in your chambers?”

“Well, there are some ladies of Laketown who wished to be close by their husbands, among the wounded,” you began, fidgeting with the hem of the blanket between your fingers.

Thorin shook his head in disbelief and interjected, “tell me you haven’t given away your rooms.”

“Dale is an even poorer shelter than Erebor, and one of them is with child, Thorin,” you continued your explanation, “she needs the rooms more than I do.”

He sighed wearily. “You are too compassionate for your own good.”

“No such thing,” you countered. “I’ll be fine here, it’s perfectly comfortable.” You determinedly tucked your legs under the blanket, hoping he would fail to notice the shiver that had run through you with the stirring of the wintry air in the cavernous hall.

He contemplated you with a skeptical arch of his eyebrow and stood with crossed arms, silent, hesitating as though he wrestled internally with some thorny dilemma. At last, he addressed you again.

“Gather your things and come with me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come with me,” he repeated, more gently, adding, “please.”

Stuffing your feet into your shoes and scooping up the bag you’d hurriedly packed with extra clothes and small comforts such as a hairbrush and soap, you followed Thorin on a winding journey through cold, dusty passageways, arriving at last at a large, elaborately carved wooden door. He turned its handle and put his shoulder to the door as it creaked and reluctantly dislodged itself from its frame.

Upon entering the chamber, you realized immediately that it must be Thorin’s own. Though it had been cleaned and made habitable after its long abandonment, as in your own suite of rooms an air of shabbiness and disrepair clung to the sooty walls and faded fabrics, the dull wood of the furniture.

He led you through a dilapidated sitting room and into a bedroom, where the crackling fire in the hearth was a welcome sight, and you moved close to it, warming your hands as you glanced to the large bed, covered by a pelt of thick fur and a heavy woolen blanket.

“You can sleep here tonight,” Thorin explained, as he rummaged in a large oaken wardrobe, bringing out a pillow, an extra robe, and his well-worn leather coat.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the Great Hall.”

“Thorin,” you protested, “I will not turn you out of your own bedchamber.”

He shook his head insistently. “I can withstand the cold better than you.” A faint flush rose in his cheeks as he added, “and some would call it improper for me to stay.”

His sudden delicacy and the fleeting image it inspired of sharing a bed with Thorin under quite different circumstances momentarily flustered you, but your practical mind rallied. “If it is improper to have the good sense not to freeze to death, then let us be guilty,” you observed dryly. “We’re no strangers to sleeping in close quarters, after all…and if we lie back to back, it will be warmer for both of us.”

He stood for a moment with his armload of gear, clearly wavering, and finally inclined his head in concession, tossing you the pillow he carried. You dropped your bag on a nearby chair, pulled off your shoes, and gladly climbed into bed, sighing as you settled into the plush fur and snuggled the blanket up to your neck. Thorin stoked the fire and added more logs before blowing out the lanterns and moving to the other side of the bed, and you dutifully turned onto your side to face away from him and toward the fireplace.

His coat fell to the floor with a thud, and the mattress shifted as he lay down. In a moment, you felt the solid warmth of his broad back close to your own, and he gave his own sigh of relaxation.

“This is not so bad, is it?” you asked, daring to hint at teasing him.

“I suppose not.” You could hear the begrudging smile in his voice.

Silence fell between you, and you thought he had fallen asleep while you gazed dreamily at the dancing flames in the grate. It came as a surprise when he spoke quietly.

“It was not always like this.”

“What?” you glanced over your shoulder.

“Erebor,” he murmured, his tone sad, wistful. “It was not always like this…a cold, empty ruin. It was a mighty stronghold, a haven, a home.”

“And so it shall be again,” you reminded him.

“Aye.”

Slowly, you turned to lie on your back beside him. “Tell me,” you ventured. “What was it like?”

You could see him crane his neck to look at you, could just make out his face in the faint glow of firelight, and he, too, moved to his back to lie shoulder to shoulder with you, looking up to the bed’s dark canopy.

“It was filled with life,” he said softly. “With work and song and feasting. It was a place of prosperity, of peace…the greatest of our kingdoms. Throughout Middle Earth, the name of Erebor was honored.” His voice was more fond than you’d ever heard it as he spun tales of memories, legends, all so vivid that you could nearly feel the heat of the great furnaces, hear the music of festivals and the horns that signaled the end of the working day, see the bustling workshops and the wagons loaded with jewels and silks destined for trade.

Eventually, he subsided into silence again, leaving you to ponder his words in the darkness, to fully understand the despair he felt when he walked these ravaged halls, looked on the devastated remains of his once-proud homeland.

“Thank you,” you said earnestly, looking to his profile, silhouetted a shade darker than the room around him. “Thank you for telling me.”

The profile creased with a smile. “Thank you for listening.”

An answering smile tugged at your own lips, and you rolled back to your side to burrow more deeply beneath the blanket. “Good night, Thorin.”

“Good night.”

If you had fallen asleep with your head filled with dreams of Erebor at the height of its glory, you were awakened in the small hours by the stark reality of its current, inhospitable state. Your muscles were tense and trembling with cold, your skin prickling with gooseflesh, and only the blackness of the barren fireplace met your eyes upon opening them.

Thorin moved about the dark room, and you heard the thud of wood being added to the grate. He knelt at the hearth and blew on the few remaining embers that glowed and faded rhythmically with his measured breaths. At last, a little tongue of flame caught and grew, bathing Thorin’s face in an orange glow as it spread over the dry logs. With a purposeful step, he crossed to the wardrobe, and you felt the weight of another thick blanket spread over the bed before he hurried to slip beneath the coverings.

Instinctively, you sought him, and with propriety cast to the wind, he enfolded you in his arms to pull you snugly against his chest. You nestled your face into the crook of his neck, where the heat of your breath ghosted over his skin, reflecting itself back to your chilled nose and cheeks, and the shivering of your body against his gradually calmed as your shared warmth enveloped you both.

As the cold slowly released you from its grasp and your body relaxed into the warm comfort of Thorin’s embrace, you found yourself awakened to the pleasant strangeness of being closer to him than you’d ever been, ever dreamed of being. The scent of musky skin and pipe smoke and some faint, elusive spiciness filled your nostrils, and the dark waves of his hair were soft against your cheek. The sheer strength of the arms that held you and the muscular hardness of his chest where your hand rested stirred small flutters in your stomach that intensified with the quickening thrum of his pulse and the thick, deliberate swallow that rippled slowly over his throat.

Your hand crept to his back, coming to rest with a tentative stroke over his shoulder blade, and his fingers raked gently through your hair as he whispered, “go back to sleep…I will keep you warm.”

The morning dawned cold and cloudy, just as the mornings before it, and in the dim, gray light from the tiny windows cut high in the stone wall of Thorin’s chamber, his blue eyes greeted you from the other side of the bed when you woke. He must have replenished the fire while you slept, for it blazed cheerfully, and he lay quietly watching you with a gaze that struck you as curious.

“Have you slept well?” His voice was low, roughened by sleep.

“Very well,” you murmured. “You?”

“Better than usual,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth quirking upward, and a small smile played about your lips.

Slowly, with that same questioning look, he reached out to delicately trace the line of your jaw with his fingertips, as though to find whether the night’s closeness would stand the test of daylight, and you moved wordlessly to return to the haven of his welcoming arms. Your palm lay over his heart, feeling its steady thump grow heavier under your touch, and there was wonder in his eyes when you lifted your head to softly, quickly graze his lips with your own.

For a long, breathless moment, he searched your face before his hand slid into your hair, cradling the back of your head to pull you close for another, more lingering kiss, and when he rested his forehead against yours with a sigh, a luminous smile stole over his features, sparking your own smile that broadened until you were burying a shy giggle in his shoulder.

“Would you like to stay here again tonight?” His lips brushed your forehead with the invitation.

“Hmm,” you feigned deliberation. “I wouldn’t want to fall afoul of the King…he scolded me last night for giving up my rooms.”

“Foolish of him,” Thorin observed wryly.

“I thought so,” you agreed, and his chest rumbled with a laugh. You looked into his face and your fingers strayed to the softness of his beard as you asked, more seriously, “would you like me to stay here tonight?”

He caught your hand in his to press your fingertips to his lips. “I have often imagined how it might be to see your face when I wake,” he confessed.

Your eyes widened with surprise. “Why did you never tell me?”

“Every day, I wished to,” he answered, his tone sobering. “It was a pleasure I could not allow myself while I bore the burden of reclaiming the mountain.”

“And now?” you wondered, a smile curving your lips.

“And now,” the corners of his eyes crinkled with a fond smile, and he leaned to kiss your forehead, “Erebor belongs to the dwarves again…and I will shelter you in my arms for as many nights as you will stay.”

With a last pressing of your lips to his, you dragged yourself regretfully from beneath the blankets, sitting up to rub your arms briskly as the cold air bit through the fabric of your dress, and a flash of confusion showed in his expression at your leaving.

“I have to go and help Oin see to our charges,” you explained, affectionately smoothing Thorin’s hair away from his face. “And after that…I shall stop and tell the ladies of Laketown that they are welcome to my chambers for as long as they have need of them.”


End file.
